


Cross-Pollination

by 4G3NT_0R4NG3



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Female Character, Body Horror, Crying, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Kidnapping, Medical Experimentation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Plant sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pollination, Restraints, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27405265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4G3NT_0R4NG3/pseuds/4G3NT_0R4NG3
Summary: The Hunter arcanist Sophie has run afoul of the Choir, and so they have kidnapped her for their experimentation with Lumenwood Kin. Sophie does her best to resist their abuses, but a particular Choir researcher comes up with a unique way of punishing her for it.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Cross-Pollination

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is slightly canon-divergent in that the Healing Church discovers the Milkweed rune while the research hall was still in operation, before it was pulled into the Hunter's Nightmare. Lumenwood Kin biology also differs from how it is in-game; the Lumenwood Kin simply have a Lumenflower growing out of the tops of their heads, rather than their entire heads looking like cauliflower.

As she usually is, Sophie is bored out of her  _ mind. _

She’s remained strapped down to her hospital bed for probably about sixteen hours now. She hasn’t been allowed to move since the doctors had forced her back into bed last night, and it’s already close to noon, judging by the position of the sun through the frosted glass windows. Medical staff have come in a few times to refill the patients’ IVs or feed them, but aside from that, she’s been mostly undisturbed.

Telling time is a bit difficult here, but she estimates that it’s her eighth day in the research hall, and probably ten days since the Choir of the Healing Church had abducted her. That name is almost hilarious in its inaccuracy—church choirs are supposed to sing hymns, not perform hideously unethical medical experiments.

She’d never expected the Church to go after one of their own Hunters, but now she’s kicking herself for not seeing their true level of callousness. They had tolerated her scholarly pursuits at first, as long as they didn’t infringe upon her beast-hunting duties, although it was only a matter of time before her research led somewhere that the Church didn’t like. Just a suspected involvement with the School of Mensis was enough for the Choir to snatch her off the street, interrogate her, and then throw her in the research hall to dispose of her. Apparently when the Choir doesn’t like someone, they can always free up a space for another human guinea pig.

A scholar, arcanist, and Hunter of beasts—she  _ used _ to be all of those things, at least. Now, she doubts she’s much of anything anymore. They stripped her of her Hunter’s attire and confiscated her weapons and spell tools; now her only possession is her thin hospital gown that doesn’t even cover her from behind. Their experiments have distorted her flesh nearly beyond recognition; once healthily tanned skin is now a sickly bluish-gray, and spotted with patches of roughness like tree bark. Her hands have morphed and elongated into three-fingered clusters of boneless tendrils, likely unable to grip a Hunter’s weapon even if she tried. She isn’t completely sure what she looks like now, but given the appearances of the other patients, she’s grateful that the doctors haven’t provided her a mirror.

The worst, by far, is the flower. She can’t see it, but can very well feel the massive, hideous bulb above her head, its thick stem protruding through the top of her skull and growing directly out of her brain. Its petals are tightly squeezed shut, not yet ready to bloom.

She shudders. The hole in her head has stopped aching now, but she still clearly recalls the trepanning. Can’t grow a flower from her brain with that pesky skull in the way, right?

The doctors call her a “Lumenwood Kin.” The term makes her feel so inhuman—although that’s probably pretty accurate, as awful as it feels. The arcanist in her is intrigued at what she’s become and why the Choir might do this, while the rational part of her hates them more than anything for it. She doesn’t know what their plan for the Lumenwood Kin might be; all she knows is that being trepanned  _ really fucking hurts. _

The door of the patient room creaks open, and a Choir researcher enters, pushing a wheelchair in front of her. This one isn’t wearing the large tricorne and blindfold that the Choir members are known for, but the loose white robes are still unmistakeable. Sophie’s anxiety shoots through the roof as the researcher begins making her way down the row of patients.

_ Please don’t stop at me. Please don’t stop at me. Please don’t stop at me. _

The squeaky wheels come to a halt at the foot of her bed.

_ Fuck. _

The leather straps finally come undone, but she’s far too nervous to be relieved. She considers making another run for it, but ultimately decides against it. Last time, they threatened to break her ankles if she did it again.

The straps tighten around her again, on the wheelchair this time. The researcher makes sure to secure the bindings around her torso, forearms, and shins. The level of restraint originally seemed excessive to Sophie, but she probably would have caused the medical staff a lot more trouble if she wasn’t so tied down.

“Finally cooperating this time, number one-ninety-seven?” the researcher quips. She looks slightly younger than Sophie, with her blond hair pulled back into a neat, professional bun. Sophie has never seen her before, but evidently the inverse isn’t true.

“Eat my cunt, Church dog.” she spits out, but still allows the other woman to bind her to the wheelchair without resistance. The insult isn’t exactly creative, but it gets her point across well enough.

The researcher scowls, and fastens the next strap a bit too tightly for her comfort. “I don’t have time to waste dealing with patients’ behavioral issues. If you can’t hold your tongue, I  _ will  _ gag you.”

Sophie looks the younger woman up and down, the hint of a challenge in her eyes. “Sounds fun.”

The researcher’s scowl turns into a disgusted sneer, and Sophie can’t help but grin at getting a reaction out of her. She looks about ready to slap her, but she won’t—at least not in the patient room with so many witnesses around. Corporal punishment of patients is frowned upon by the institution’s administration, although not strictly forbidden.

As she’s wheeled out of the room, Sophie presses her advantage. She’s already gotten under this researcher’s skin, and although it won’t change her material condition, continuing to fuck with her will at least be a bit of catharsis.

“So, are you single? I don’t usually hook up with Church dogs, but—”

_ Whack. _

Yep, there it is. The researcher is quick, and Sophie doesn’t see the backhand coming before it’s already struck her, but it isn’t particularly surprising. Her head is jerked to the side, and a reddened patch blooms on her cheek. She shrugs it off easily; the sting is negligible compared to what a beast’s claw inflicts.  _ Worth it. _

The researcher has stopped pushing the wheelchair, her scowling face now hovering in front of Sophie. She catches the hint of a pearly white snarl before the researcher speaks.

“You know what… I think your medical checkup can be rescheduled. I have a side project that you’ll be useful for.”

Sophie tenses with anxiety when the researcher spins the wheelchair around a hundred and eighty degrees and starts to push in the complete opposite direction they had been headed. It’s not like her stomach wasn’t twisting with dread already; today’s experiments would likely be just as agonizing as every other day, but trading a medical checkup for whatever the hell  _ this _ is still doesn’t bode well.

That knot of dread continues to twist itself tighter as Sophie is loaded into an elevator at the other end of the hall, which the researcher activates to move upwards. Wherever she’s being taken, it’s on the upper levels of the research hall. She’s never been this far up in the building; most of the previous experiments had taken place on the second floor, the same one that her patient room is on.

The upper-floor lab that the researcher pushes her into is smaller than the ones she’s used to, lined with tables and cabinets full of chemistry glassware and small, unidentifiable tools. The researcher kicks down a lever on the rear of the wheelchair, preventing it from rolling and leaving her to sit. As soon as she’s in, the researcher has left almost immediately, slamming the door behind her without any explanation.

Sophie doesn’t have to wait long. The researcher returns after only a few minutes pushing another wheelchair, in which another Lumenwood Kin patient is restrained. This one is a man, and one that Sophie hasn’t seen in her patient room before. Like her, he’s clothed in nothing but the typical hospital gown that’s open in the back. His hands are a three-fingered mess of droopy tendrils similar to hers, hanging limply from the wheelchair’s armrests, and the unopened flower atop his cranium is angled towards her as his head lolls forward.

Sophie examines the man with interest. For him to be in a place like this, it’s almost worrying how young he looks, likely not much older than twenty. His frame is narrow in a way that makes him look underfed, and he lacks the same musculature that she’s built up—not a menial laborer or fellow Hunter, then. His dark, curly hair is shaggy and moplike, clearly not having been cut in a long time.

She speculates that he might be sedated, but dashes the thought when he lifts his head to look around the small lab. His eyes make contact with hers, and she can see that they’re glassy and wet, like he’s struggling to hold back tears.

The researcher is pacing the room while scrawling on a clipboard, quietly muttering to herself. “Routine cross-pollination of Lumenwood Kin… subject A, female, patient number one-ninety-seven… subject B, male... number forty.”

She passes by the young man, and he tenses in response to her approach. Sophie gets the sinking feeling that maybe he’s already been through this procedure before, and maybe he has some idea of what’s about to happen to them.

Sophie can hear clattering as the researcher sets down her clipboard on a table behind the wheelchair, then starts rifling through a cabinet. Patient forty keeps his wide eyes trained on her, emitting a tiny whimper at whatever she’s doing. Sophie tenses in anticipation, unable to see what’s going on behind her.

She jumps in her restraints, but doesn’t cry out, when a hypodermic needle unexpectedly pierces her exposed right buttock.  _ This _ is why the hospital gowns are open in the back. Whatever is in the syringe burns as it’s forced into her muscle; it’s painful for an injection, but she had built up her pain tolerance pretty quickly while working as a Hunter. She has no idea what she’s being injected with, although she silently hopes it’s just another dose of sedatives.

It’s over soon enough, and the researcher slaps an adhesive bandage onto her ass at the spot where the needle entered. She can swear that the other woman’s hand lingers on her skin for just a bit longer than is strictly necessary to apply the bandage.

While Sophie doesn’t have a major problem with the pain, the man across from her clearly does. He all but screams as the researcher pushes the liquid into his rear.

“OW! Ow ow ow  _ owww!!! _ ”

He doesn’t articulate any verbal protests, despite his obvious distress. The man seems far too beaten-down to give the researcher any insubordination, and Sophie briefly wonders how long he’s been here for. The researcher steps back from him, leaning against a table on the far wall with a clipboard in hand. Her eyes glance between them both, ready to note any observations. Nothing happens for awhile; she’s likely waiting for the effects of the injection to kick in on them.

A few minutes pass in silence and boredom. Sophie’s eyes dart from the researcher to the other patient to the door and back again, braced for any sudden movement. The stillness has an uncomfortable edge to it, similar to how everything goes too quiet right before a beast ambush.

When the tension breaks, it’s not from the researcher or even the other patient—it’s from Sophie’s abrupt realization that her body feels too hot. The labs are usually kept fairly chilly, and this one hadn’t been any different when she’d entered. Now, her muscles are warmed up as if she’d just finished a vigorous workout. It’s a little disconcerting; maybe a side effect of whatever the researcher injected her with?

She takes notice immediately when the flower growing out of her head begins to bloom. It’s the oddest sensation in the world to feel involuntary movement in a part of her body that by all rights should not exist. Her leaves pull back and petals separate, leaving her disc florets open to the researcher’s curious, prying gaze. For some reason, her open flower leaves her feeling shamefully nude before the other woman, even more so than the exposed back of her hospital gown.

Between the heat of her body and the movement of her floral structures, Sophie is rapidly going from disconcerted to outright distressed. She looks over to patient forty in search of any answers, and sees his flower gradually coming into bloom as well. The sight gives her an idea of what she might look like; his center is a dark, fuzzy disc similar to a sunflower, although his petals are a cool off-white rather than a warm yellow. His face is incredibly flushed, the pale bluish-gray turning to a heated pink across his cheeks and nose. Instead of his former morose resignation, he’s now utterly distraught, the wetness in his eyes threatening to spill out down his face.

She glances downwards, and her eyes widen in shock as she sees that he’s pitching a tent underneath his hospital gown. When he notices where she's looking, a fervent blush overtakes his face. He turns his head away from her with a grimace of embarrassment, unable to meet her eyes.

_ Wait, what the fuck? _

Sophie holds in a gasp as there’s a spontaneous surge of heat in her crotch. The warmth of her body has started to become uncomfortable, and nowhere is it more severe than between her legs. Blood rushes to her face as her own arousal becomes apparent.

It’s the injection. It  _ has _ to be the injection. The young man across from her isn’t bad-looking by any means, and neither is the researcher, but there’s still no way she could become aroused of her own volition in a situation like this. Does a drug that causes her flower to bloom really also have to make her so horribly  _ wet? _

The researcher dons a pair of white surgical gloves, then picks a test tube and what looks like a small paintbrush from an overhead cabinet. “Subjects A and B both in full bloom… ready to start the procedure.”

She firmly places a gloved hand on Sophie’s stem, holding her entire head still. Sophie squirms as the paintbrush makes contact with the disc florets in the center of her flower, but the researcher’s grip prevents her from jerking away. The bristles work their way in between her stigmas and down to her anthers, and she erupts into goosebumps across her whole body. The sensation is uncomfortable, mostly due to oversensitivity; it feels sort of like being intensely tickled. There’s something else to it, though; beneath the discomfort, she can’t deny that there’s an undercurrent of pleasure to the touch. She could probably enjoy this sensation if she was with a man or woman she trusts, but not while she’s strapped down to a chair in a medical lab.

When the researcher withdraws, Sophie sees that she’s shaking a white, powdery substance from the brush into a test tube.  _ My pollen, _ she realizes. The researcher approaches Forty with the whitened paintbrush, and his tears finally begin to overflow. Even consumed by fear and desperation as he is, he remains determined not to insult her or plead for mercy.

"Mm—ahh!"

He first groans, then softly cries out as the researcher grips his stem and begins to brush the white pollen onto his stigmas. Sophie looks on in horror and fascination at his reaction, expecting it to be similar to her own, but she's taken aback when he releases a moan that can only be described as erotic.

Forty has started to cry openly, but the researcher’s brush is soon forcing a very different kind of sound out of him. The man is clearly being pleasured by her strokes, while at the same time hating every second of it. His noises of sexual stimulation are interspersed with miserable whimpers and sobs, while his eyes are reddened and laden with tears. He twists and squirms involuntarily in his restraints as the researcher makes her way around his flower, meticulously dusting each of his stigmas with Sophie’s pollen. The bulge under his hospital gown continuously twitches and grows with each of her quick brushstrokes, much to his shame and despair.

The scene unfolding in front of her is bewildering, but Sophie can’t tear her gaze away from it. Forty’s struggles grow increasingly frantic, his gasps and cries increasing in speed and volume as the procedure drags on. It’s strangely violating to know that it’s her genetic material being forced upon this poor man, but she’s sure that the feeling must be a thousand times worse for him.

Forty’s whole body abruptly goes stiff. He throws himself back against the wheelchair as far as the restraints will allow, and his distraught, pleasured cries culminate in a drawn-out wail. Sophie winces as a wet spot appears on his hospital gown at the point where his bulge is most prominent. As he releases, the tension seems to gradually bleed out of him, and his shouts give way to gasping moans as he comes down from his high. He’s still sobbing as the procedure completes.

The researcher steps back from Forty, carefully removes her pollen-covered gloves, then disposes of them along with the paintbrush in a bin labeled ‘BIOHAZARDOUS WASTE.’ She retrieves her clipboard from the tabletop, pacing and muttering again as she scribbles. “Lumenwood Kin pollination… stimulating the plant reproductive system also stimulating the human reproductive system… normal, subject B is healthy.”

Forty doesn’t have much time to recuperate before she’s on him again. She replaces the gloves and paintbrush with fresh ones from a cabinet, then sets her sights on extracting a sample of pollen from him. He yelps and squirms as the new brush makes contact with his disc florets, without a doubt painfully oversensitive after his earlier climax. His eyes begin to tear up again, but the researcher withdraws quickly, the brush already coated in white.

The researcher glances down to the wet spot on Forty’s gown, and his deflating erection underneath it. She cocks her head to the side, briefly seeming pensive, before snatching another test tube from the shelves of glassware. Sophie can’t quite tell what’s going on, but she can see the researcher slip her hands underneath Forty’s gown at the point where his legs meet, causing him to whimper. When she withdraws, the test tube has a bit of viscous white fluid dribbling down the side.

She examines the two vials of Forty’s reproductive material under the light, one containing white fluid and the other white powder. “I wonder… Hm. I’ll have to test the samples against each other later, see if they have the same genetic makeup.” She seals the vial of fluid with a rubber stopper, then turns to Sophie with the vial of powder in one hand and her paintbrush in the other.

For all the beasts she’s faced in her line of work, nothing has ever terrified Sophie more than the researcher approaching her with those accursed tools. This procedure has utterly destroyed Forty, and she’s been waiting next in line for it. Now, her turn has finally arrived. She can just about feel her heart stop as the researcher seizes her stem again.

Sophie is quickly discovering that her plant reproductive organs are every bit as sensitive as her human ones. Each stigma feels like its own tiny clitoris, and the brush’s soft bristles against them are driving her absolutely  _ insane. _

_ It’s a fucking plant; why is it so full of nerve endings!? _

The researcher progresses around her flower in a circular pattern, working outwards from the center with her strokes. She occasionally stops to recollect more of Forty’s pollen from her test tube, but this hardly offers any relief, and the burning stimulation always returns far too soon. Forming any coherent thought is a challenge when she’s so insufferably distracted by the torturous brush.

The restraints aren’t making this any easier. The firm hand on her stem along with the bindings on all of her limbs hold her solidly in place, preventing her from writhing in pleasure as her body so desperately demands. Her muscles pull and tense against the unmoving leather, not finding a hint of give. The straps around her chest make it difficult to gasp for air, and she soon finds herself short of breath. All she can do is sit still and take it.

With her limbs immobilized, her only release for the tension is through her mouth, and she’s thoroughly ashamed that this researcher is causing her to be so vocal. With sensations this intense, Sophie simply can’t help herself. As many curse words as she’d like to throw out, she doesn’t dare voice them, for fear of angering her tormentor.

This ordeal wouldn’t be so unbearable if not for the researcher’s sickening smugness and blatant lack of concern for her two charges. It’s difficult to hear over her own moans, but Sophie can swear that the other woman is  _ humming _ as she works. Each stroke of the brush is a hot spike of pleasure driven into her brain, and this cruel bitch couldn't care less.

Moving around to the rear half of her flower, the researcher switches her brushing motions from single-direction strokes to a more rapid back-and-forth pattern, and Sophie thrashes her head against the woman’s grasp and nearly screams as the stimulation redoubles. The unnatural warmth of her body is no longer just heat—there’s now a tormenting pressure to it as well. Sophie feels like a lidded pot of water that’s been left on the stove for too long; any minute now, she’s about to boil over. She’ll explode from the pressure if the researcher keeps this up; it’s too much, too much—

“Please,  _ stop! _ I’m gonna—ohh fuck…”

Sophie’s stomach sinks as she realizes what she’s just done. To her surprise and relief, the researcher actually withdraws from her horribly overstimulated stigmas, allowing her to cool down slightly. The hand on her stem is gone, and she finally feels like she can breathe again.

However, the relief dissipates immediately when the researcher steps in front of her, and her malicious grin becomes visible.

“Still defiant, one-ninety-seven?” She reaches into a back pocket on her thick Choir garb and briefly searches, before extracting a rubber stick with leather bands affixed to each end. Sophie’s eyes widen in terror. “I warned you.”

She  _ needs _ to close her mouth and stop this woman from gagging her, but she’s still far too short of breath to rely only on her nose. She tries to twist her head away, but the researcher snatches her jaw and forces the bit gag between her teeth, before fastening the leather around the back of her head. She bites down hard and pathetically moans into the rubber as the researcher begins her work with the paintbrush again, just as merciless as before.

With the return of the horrendous stimulation, Sophie realizes that tears have started to roll down her cheeks. Now she fully understands why Forty was crying. Struggling to focus on anything,  _ anything _ besides the blinding pleasure coursing from her flower, she catches sight of him, still strapped into the wheelchair across from her. To her surprise, he’s still crying, despite no longer being the focus of the researcher’s attention. His eyes meet hers, and she finds them dripping with an unexpected sympathy.

It’s too much for her to hold on any longer. The dam breaks, and suddenly she feels nothing but ecstasy.

By this point, to say that Sophie is pent-up would be an understatement. Recent events have not offered many opportunities for her to relieve her needs. Between her last eight days strapped to a hospital bed, two days of being interrogated by the Choir, and constant responses to beast attacks as a Hunter, she’s gone without release for nearly two weeks now.

So when she finally has her orgasm, it is explosive and violent. Her back slams against the wheelchair as she spasms, her every muscle pulling taut against the leather bindings. Her ears barely register the muffled roar that she releases into the bit gag, nor does she pay any mind to the black spots that swim in her vision. Her cognition is melting away into nothing but white-hot, molten pleasure. It rolls over her in waves, originating from her cranium and crotch and flowing outwards through her whole body. The black spots swallow more and more of her sight, pushing her further down into darkness with each new wave of bliss. Her climax finishes with a feeling of hollowness in her head, and it’s the last thing she experiences before she’s out like a snuffed candle.

When Sophie’s consciousness returns to her, her right eye is being held open and a bright light shined into it. The researcher backs away from her as she lifts her head, setting down a small hand lamp on the table beside her.

“Oh, good. Just vasovagal reflex; you’re fine.”

Reality comes back to her like an icy lake she’s just fallen into. She’s still panting for breath, despite having fallen unconscious, indicating that she was likely only out for a few seconds. Her body shines with a thin layer of sweat, causing her skin to adhere to the chair as she pulls herself up from her slumped position. The rubber bit digs uncomfortably into the flesh of her cheeks; her jaw and throat are sore from biting and screaming into it. There’s something warm and sticky coating her inner thighs and ass, and her face burns red as she becomes aware of the mess she’s made on the seat.

The researcher steps between the two Lumenwood patients and claps her hands together in satisfaction. “Excellent! This procedure has been highly successful. You should both start to bear seeds in about thirty days.”

The prospect of  _ ‘bearing seeds’ _ is the last thing that Sophie needs to hear right now. Forty handles it even worse, emitting a soft sob and breaking into fresh tears at the researcher’s statement. It’s obvious he has some experience that she lacks; how many harvests worth of seeds has he been forced to carry already?

The researcher chooses to wheel Sophie out first, seeing fit to leave Forty crying by himself in the lab. Approaching Sophie’s wheelchair, she curiously cocks her head to the side again, sending another spike of anxiety through the bound woman. With two pinched fingers, she lifts Sophie’s hospital gown from where it covers her legs, revealing the patch of slickness coating the seat as well as its source. Sophie tries to close her legs, only to find them still restrained, and her face heats with humiliation. There’s definitely a joke to be made here, a  _ “like what you see?” _ or something like that, but even if she wasn’t gagged, she’s too exhausted or distraught to care at this point.

“Ugh. I’ll have to clean the seat off.” The researcher’s lip curls up in disgust.

_ Maybe you should have thought of that before you made me cum all over it, bitch. _

The ride back to the elevator is short and uneventful. On their way back down, the researcher unfastens the bit gag and removes it from between Sophie’s teeth. Air comes more easily to her lungs without the rubber in the way, and she can finally begin to flex the soreness out of her jaw.

From behind her, the researcher leans in uncomfortably close to Sophie’s ear. The younger woman’s breath is warm against her skin, but her whispered words chill her to the bone.

“I hope you’ve learned something from this experience.”

Although she’s ungagged, something prevents her from speaking all the same. She can’t find the energy to further sass this woman, although she gets the sickening feeling that that’s exactly what the researcher intended.

_ So this whole ordeal was just behavioral correction for an unruly patient, huh? _ she thinks bitterly.  _ You dragged Forty into it, hurt him too, just to teach me a lesson?  _

Ordinarily, these thoughts would spur her on with rage, motivating her to insubordinate even further. Now, all they bring her is despair. There’s an awareness that what this woman has just done to her and Forty was truly very terrible, and that she absolutely  _ should _ be enraged, but she simply can’t muster the will for it right now.

Sophie is too exhausted to give the other woman any resistance as she straps her back down to hospital bed number one-ninety-seven. Over the course of the day, she’s spent a grand total of maybe ninety seconds without leather bindings compressing her every limb, but she doesn’t concern herself with that. Right now, she just wants to be left alone to wallow in her disgust and humiliation in peace.

“Your medical checkup is scheduled for the same time tomorrow.” Too abruptly for her to process, the researcher slips a hand under Sophie’s hospital gown and gives her breast a rough squeeze. She freezes solid as her nipple is pinched between an index finger and thumb.

“I’ll see you then.” The researcher’s tone is entirely too sultry for Sophie’s comfort. Her own lascivious comments from earlier today have  _ nothing _ on this bitch’s level of creepiness. The hand has left as quickly as it intruded, but it leaves her skin feeling like ice.

The researcher disappears with the sodden wheelchair through the patient room door, and Sophie ends her day as she began it: bored out of her mind.


End file.
